Category Archives: Rants

One minute, one week, and you make the mistake of thinking it’s okay. That you’re okay. That it’s safe to be familiar and it’s safe to sit a breath away. That it’s safe to look at and it’s safe to smile. Out of a hundred, you estimate that the chance of you catching it is around five percent. Or less. Likely zero.

Here, have a non-committal snicker. Not you. Never you. It’s probably just a myth after all.

That’s when the symptoms start.

It begins with the little things. Trivial minute details that you (or anyone else for that matter) barely notice.

First you see. (No, not yourself. A little bit later on you will, when it’s too late.) You notice the cause of the sickness first. Wow. When did those smiles get so unique? When did you start wanting to see them so much? What’s that scent? Since when did it smell so good?

Since when did your gravity shift from the world in general to just one, previously insignificant being?

And then you start fussing about the little things, ‘I look ridiculous‘, ‘Does this hairdo suit me‘, ‘Do I look awful‘, ‘Did I say this right‘, ‘Do I sound desperate‘ ‘Am I being obvious’ ‘Shit, could they possibly know I…‘- you put an end to your average carefree life and constantly live through the exhausting thrill of thinking too much, assuming too much (oh my god, he looked this way; oh hell, she smiled at me today), with occasional dips of depression that out of the two of you, you realize you’re probably the only one who gives a flying fuck about what stupid shirt you wore today.

It’s an affliction that eats you from inside out.

Of course you deny it, like all infected do. Some lie, so well in fact that they end up believing it. And the sickness festers, rots, and gnashes, and throbs- until it hurts too much so they succumb to treatment or they try to kill it themselves. Others acknowledge it with defeat. With hope. With dread. Few take the flippant approach where the symptoms are pushed to the surface (because truth is so rarely spoken out loud these days- it’s a lie, it has to be, otherwise why would you say it and risk it?)

Then again however you may deal with this it’s final. You caught it (or rather it caught you- hook line and sinker) and you have no idea how to cure yourself. Comparable to addiction maybe but no, addiction gives you the first hit, the first choice- try it? No? Yes? – this one however- Hey, hi, nice to meet you. Yeah, what are you talking about, of course we’re best friends. Or, yes, I hate you. Despise your very existence. Or, I’m straight, I can’t possibly- that’s gross.

Wait.

Uh. I think I…

It’s hardly a matter of choice.

It creeps and creeps and when it finds one weak point, it tumbles all at once and breaches all precaution like there’s no tomorrow. You wake up and you find yourself sick and aching for a cure. A look maybe. One message? A laugh? A glance? For just a second?

Like every infection there were ways to avoid it. Of course like vegetables or exercise, the healthy way isn’t always the tastiest. The happiest. The liveliest. You just had to go and gorge yourself on delectable personality traits and feast on physical attributes that suddenly became your ideal. Now it’s too late.

This is the kind of infection that you either nurture with the right medicine where the cause is the cure. The medicine is costly, the stakes high. Painful. You may get the medicine or die trying. It can take months, weeks. Depends on the gravity of the cause or the level of infection. You can try your darnest and still suffer pain until you die.

When you die, good luck, you’re cured.

Or you cut it before it consumes you whole. An amputee- less of who you were, but hey, at least you’re alive.

I don’t like meeting new people, but it seems to have molded itself into my daily cycle.

Sheer agony.

Make no mistake, I don’t dislike the idea. I dislike the process itself. Everything about the getting-to-know-you stage makes me uncomfortable. It makes me jittery. I tend to make really intricate friendships with a lot of hidden context piled in over the years. Without that solid ground, I’m lost. I don’t know what to say. Will he get this joke if I say it? Will this topic sound off if I suddenly mention it in relation to their conversation? Will I sound stupid, or arrogant, or just plain out weird?

What are these ‘social norms’ you speak of? More importantly can I lather that in cheese?

It doesn’t help that now that I’m out of high school, I realize the media’s depiction of college isn’t that far off from reality- well, in my college at least. Though not that confined to stereotypes, I’ve been finding it harder and harder to work out just how the hell I’d start off conversations and keep them going. I’m in the worst stages of the getting-to-know-you-phase and even more awful still is the fact that most of them are already clustered in groups with their own stream of banter.

And- get this, plot twist- I don’t think I actually want to know new people that much. It’s just that I don’t like pity, and some think that my constant wanderings and solitary walks around campus is something that I didn’t choose for myself. So I’m occasionally strung along parties and lunch periods with people I barely know, making polite and dead conversation that drains all my energy and soaks me up in anxiety.

Meeting knew people has its ups and downs, I get that.
And I’m so frustrated hearing everyone say that you’re missing a lot by not ‘putting yourself out there’.
What exactly am I missing? I wouldn’t have met my best friends if I hadn’t gone through the getting-to-know-you stage, but they wouldn’t mean that much to me either if I didn’t dread said stage so much.

I guess this is all just going too fast for me and people already jumping ahead to conclusions about what I need, or who I need feels invasive.

I’m tired of meeting new people in this environment, but I seem to find myself going through the intro routine ever day.

This is my first time experiencing the so called ‘monday of shitdom’. Like, you know, when people overexaggerate how monday is the worst day of the week with all the bad things happening and friday is the god of all week days.

So far I’ve woken up with an earth shattering toothache w/that incapacitated me from doing anything productive for academics. The right side of my face is probably swollen up right now.

So yeah, coupled with my shitty financial burden and ultra immature bum aunt and my over dramatic grandmother stressing out my mom, I have to be at school. Without decent socks.

And here I am, cutting classes like a fugitive.

You know what the fucking lady guard does? Reprimand me (and only me despite the other students in the same predicament) about my rubber-made black shoes, saying it’s supposed to be leather. Fucking bitch I’ve been wearing this shit since last semester. She was in a bad mood and taking it out on people- which the guards here are prone to do at uni. Anyway, I didn’t want to get confrontational since I had a toothache and I might end up stabbing her with a ballpoint pen so I just gave her my ID (which will now make it twice as hard to get in and out of school till Wednesday when I can claim it- fucking surprise, I don’t even have classes on wed) and she handed me the piece of reprimand paper.

So then I bought my book for busscon. and being a few minutes early for my 1pm class, I went to the bathroom to try and salvage my downtrodden appearance- but of course I forgot my fucking essentials. Then I also remember that I forgot my heavyass book for 1st period like fuck (which I bought last time and my prof was supposed to check last time). Oh, there goes the bell.

I’ll probably be fucking late for typing this up on my droid.
Ugh, toothache starting to act up again despite the painkillers. Fuck me.

Have I mentioned how much I hate wearing bras? Like, really, who’s the brilliant fucker that sexualized the concept of nipples? First, we get one hell of an idealized woman figure, achieved mostly by wearing corsets and push-up bras to make ’em boobies look more erotic. Then the next century rolls along: it’s when you don’t wear them that you’re considered obscene!

It’s great that some people want to wear bras for their own personal reasons and all, but why can’t the opposite be true for others? Like, I don’t want to wear bras ’cause most are constricting, tight, harmful and just fucking uncomfortable. But of course, if I don’t wear bras in public, it’s taken as a bold statement. It’s an invitation for sexual advances. It’s daring, it’s something explicit.

Just fucking why? Does wearing a bra make anyone else think that there MIGHT be something other than boobs underneath them? We sure fooled society then.

And also this fact: when a strap is showing, some people make it a point to hiss secretively, ‘your strap is showing!’ [Insert dramatic gasp plus blushing and all that cartoon crap]. Well woopdee fucking do, you’ve discovered my secret! Oh no, someone has seen the strap and will therefore conclude that I wear bras and that I- god forbid! – have boobs.

Shit fucking niggity, what the hell is wrong with everyone? It’s like we’re raising a pack of horny wolves who will hump someone at the peek of an undergarment.

What will really prove my point though is when this post is actually read by dudes who don’t understand the discomfort this garment provides, and would then snicker like the average hormonal shitface in highschool about a girl not wanting to wear a bra. Oh, all the possible sexual innuendos I can throw her way, amirite? Let’s not exclude the few (or is it really just a few) dudettes who are quick to side with the patriarchy by joining in with the ridicule. As if they don’t know how uncomfortable it is. As if they truly buy the idea that being sexualized, being harassed, being called a slut, being held to impossibly high and destructive standards of uniform beauty is all their fault simply for being female and following the double-standard trends and expectations society has heaped upon them.

Yes I feel the yawn for the above paragraph. Ew, where are the bras? Talk about more bras, I came here for the boobies and the cynical humor.

Why, of course.

The last thing I want to do is disappoint and hurt you, I think I’m gonna buy ice cream before we get to the physical harm.

Is it just me being a rabid feminist or am I actually on to something?

You see, on the TCCP (Tariff and Customs Code of the Philippines), I noticed that aircrafts, ships or any other vessel for transportation is generally referred to as ‘she’ or ‘her’, whereas it’s automatically assumed that the one manning the said vessel or the one that’s addressed in any shipping, tax, import or export laws for compliance and execution is male.

This has bothered me for quite a while ever since I got my first major subject last semester that dealt with volume II of the TCCP. I put it aside eventually as some minor concern compared to my impending examinations. It was quickly forgotten.

But the issue resurfaced recently after having this particular conversation with my parents about the profession I chose. I dropped by the store just as my mom and dad were having lunch and the topic generally veered toward matters concerning my course.

As much as I love my mom, she has this sense of being insensitive when it comes to talking (or am I just too sensitive on a lot of topics?). When there’s someone dealing with loss, someone suffering from trauma etc., she’s likely to go on a tirade about something that wasn’t intended to hurt, but actually does.

I knew it was in her best intentions to say that I had to pass the licensure exams with top marks. Keyword here is ‘had’, like it’s a requirement, and simply passing would render such achievement as invalid. It’s great to have high goals and all, really, but I wanted it to be mine. Something I wanted for myself, not another achievement I did for someone else’s approval (again. And again. And again.).

Anyway, I let it pass. Typical mom.

But one more thing I sort of dislike about mom is her tendency to be sexist.

Keep in mind that it was her who insisted I take up customs administration, with the pretense of making me choose my own course but actually pushing me to take this or that. I had no qualms though. I’m pretty neutral about most stuff concerning my own life so I don’t really have ‘passions’ to speak of. I accepted the course. Started to like it. Prepared to do it with the ‘diligence of a good father’.

So naturally I was flabbergasted when she told me that eventually I had to take up law after passing my licensure exam, since customs administration was a great pre-law course. Reason? Customs administration is not a course for women.

Ignoring the fact that she, once again, is hell bent on fulfilling her own stunted dreams on my behalf, I was offended about the idea that no matter how fucking good I was, no matter how hard I tried, society would still deem me insufficient and vulnerable. That was why I had to make it to the top ranks, according to her. If I passed, I would not be good enough. I needed a title greater than usual to even be respected and considered equal to a guy.

My dad retaliated by saying there are a lot of women in customs too. That a female broker’s papers are processed faster than a man’s. He abruptly stopped and did not press the issue further. In my family, I got my father’s heated temper, general indifference, and reluctance to show worry and affection. He would never outwardly talk about it, but I knew somewhere along the conversation, the fact that when her daughter graduates, she’d be subjected to harassment did enter his mind. It’s an awkward topic for both of us.

I went back to our other house, a stone throw away from the store, feeling affronted.

I can be good at my job, I thought. Why do I have to be subjected to stereotyping, of all things? It’s something I’ve avoided all my life, choosing to act less feminine, not quite masculine. Just a grey area where the opposite gender doesn’t fancy you, but neither do they group you with the third sex.

I just feel helpless I guess. Not because I’m female and in line with the belief that I’m not fit for my chosen profession, but about the fact that most people would never believe that I am.

I’m a sucker for recognition. Knowing someone out there thinks I might not be that great in doing this or that without even seeing what I do kills my newfound enthusiasm a little. I don’t know. I was raised this way, I guess. I feed on praise.

I wish I was just born with a dick and a flat chest. Society’s stigma would have been so lenient on me then.

So why are vessles referred to as ‘she’ and the pilot ‘he’? Maybe I wouldn’t be so outraged if we’re talking about pirates and sailors stuff here when it turns out that it has a perverse connotation, but it’s written law for godsake. It’s supposed to take everyone on equal terms.